Inception
by d'Armagnac
Summary: Beyond Birthday is living with his mother after his father's death. But when his mother dies, he and Nate River must not be caught by the authorities and risk separation. Not slash. Sort of on-hold.
1. Commence

**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. Or affiliations. Or anything but the story.**

* * *

><p>"Let's go, brat!"<br>That voice. I _hate_ that voice.  
>My mother.<p>

I, Beyond Birthday, age eleven, have been living with my mother for exactly six months and eight days. Before getting dumped into the middle of scenic Wakefield, England, I lived in America with my father. Minnesota, to be exact.  
>What the hell am I doing on the wrong side of the Atlantic with a crazed psychopath who wants nothing to do with me but took me in anyway, do you ask? Of course, you don't care. But since I'm heading over to Ms. River's place and have nothing to do, I'll tell you anyway.<p>

February 18, 1991 - the day my father died.

He was killed by thugs, right on the streets of Minneapolis. I remember...we were walking. Towards our home. It was a Monday morning, but I didn't have school.

I was - _am_ - smart. I passed through elementary school, middle school, and high school in a matter of three years. For the past three years, I self-studied classes at the University of Minnesota; Math, Science, World Studies. All the professors knew I was brilliant. More so than them.

But still, classes were for my free time. Mostly, I worked in my father's restaurant, and read books in the library.

Specifically, medical books.

I had no intention of becoming a medical professional, but the human body interested me. It is a truly remarkable machine. Atoms and cells and tissue and organs and systems coming together to form something unique; strong; alive; something that _thinks_. Something that's _brilliant_.

Regardless, back to the street. Two men appeared out of nowhere and shoved my father up against the wall of the alley we were passing in front of. A third wrapped one arm around my torso - pinning my arms to my sides - and slapped a large smelly hand across my mouth and nose before I could react.

Remember, I was only eleven at the time.

As it turns out, the man holding me actually had a cloth in the hand on my face. The smell was chloroform, and, as the cloth was obstructing my airways, I had no choice but to breathe in the chemical.

I woke up on a plane to England that same day. I remember rising from unconsciousness, squinting in the light from the oval window. Twisting my neck, I could see the passenger next to me. He was a large man, at least six feet tall, wearing a dark suit and black sunglasses. He must have noticed me looking, and turned his head to face me.

"You are going to live with your mother," was all he said. Looking towards the front of the plane, he remained silent for the rest of the trip, never once relaxing his stiff posture.

I asked questions, of course. What happened to my father? Is he dead? What about my home, the restaurant? What about my classes, my work, my _father_?

Nothing.

The flight was about eight hours, though I was only awake for half of it. When we touched down in England, I felt nothing.

Nothing about my father. As far as I concerned myself, he was only there to provide food and a place to sleep (not, of course, that I couldn't easily get those things myself). The one person I've known my whole life suddenly dying had no effect on me, except for the fact that I had to move homes to a faraway country. Emotional trauma? None.

I was displeased, of course, at having to live with a stranger related to me through DNA only, and across the ocean, at that, but that could be dealt with.

No, what _really_ caused me discomfort was the fact that I now had to drive on the left side of the road. I suppose you could say that it was displaced emotions concerning all the changes in my life, latching onto something as silly as road laws in a different country, but that is not true.

I suspect it was because it was simply because I like the cars on the right side of the road.

The man in the suit let me out in front of a small, rather rundown townhome in Wakefield. As soon as I closed the door, he shifted the car into gear and drove off, not looking back or staying to make sure it was really my mother's house.

I twitched the backpack slung over a single shoulder as I looked the home from bottom to top and back to bottom. The backpack was light, as there was hardly anything in it. A change of clothes, a toothbrush, and nothing else. It was packed by the man in the suit, or one of his cohorts, so of course it had none of my more personal items in it. Not that I had any that I'd like to bring with me, anyway.

Frowning, I pushed open the dilapidated wood-and-metal gate, which screeched in protest, and walked up the uneven stone walkway to the steps. Here I stopped again, and surveyed the house a second time. There was a front door, plain but dirty white. On either side, there were dust-frosted windows. The second floor had a row of three windows, appearing to be slightly cleaner than the ground-floor ones. Then the pointed used-to-be-red-but-has-long-since-faded-to-brown roof.

I heaved a sigh and settled into a glare. Climbing the three steps to the inset wooden door (there obviously used to be a screen door in front of it, but that has long since disappeared - though, leaving behind its hinges), I ignored the doorbell with cracked casing that didn't look like it worked anyway and banged twice directly on the door with my fist.

I waited thirty-three seconds before deciding to knock again. However, before I could raise my fist, the door swung open. A tall woman stood in a wide stance, one arm on the door frame and the other on the door she had just opened.

She looked down her nose at me, then wrinkled it in displeasure. "Ugh, it's you, is it? I knew this would happen, what with your father being such a pushover and getting hisself killed." She turned and walked back into the house. When I didn't follow her, she turned. "Well?" Impatient. "Come in, then." Resuming her walk inside, she proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the day.

The next morning, when I asked what was for breakfast, her only response was, "What? Can't you feed yourself? God, they told me you were _smart_..."

I knew immediately she was my birth mother. We had the same spiky black hair, the same wide black eyes. She was thin, but looked strong - as did I. She had the same impatience, the blunt way of speaking. She was my mother.

In short, we hated each other. We'd snap and prod at each other's weaknesses; we'd trade insults on the sly; we did our best to make each other miserable. That's how it worked.

So there you have it. The Life of Beyond Birthday, Abridged. Now that you are caught up, let's return to the present.

* * *

><p>The first time I meet Lia River, she is about six months pregnant. The baby has no father, because apparently her bastard boyfriend ditched her as soon as she told him she was carrying his child. According to my <em>mum<em>, they had some kind of whirlwind romance, _à la_ checkout aisle paperback. Apparently he was French.

She is slightly shorter than the average woman, but you can't really tell unless you stand right next to her. Short blond hair, pale blue eyes, strong, muscular legs. Classic Anglo-Saxon.

Lia River smiles when she sees me, exclaiming how I look just like my mother. The standard dialogue when one meets another's spawn; the only difference being that she _smiles_ at me. It is strange, because no one other than my father had ever smiled at me, and only then occasionally.

She is standing in her kitchen, saying something to my mother about infant brain stimulation that a book she read told her to do. My mother replies with, "That's nice, dear, but remember that a baby is still just a baby..." Hypocritical bitch.

I tune them out, and wander the rooms of the one-floor house. There's the kitchen, leading into a small sitting room containing a ratty couch with stuffing poking out through holes near the bottom. Across from the couch is an old TV (_telly_) sitting on a rickety wooden stand. Adjacent to the couch and TV is a good-sized window. Through the gap in the curtains, I can see the window is dusted with dirt and debris.  
>Forsaking the exploration of the rest of the house, I plop on the couch and attempt to search for the remote while moving myself as little as possible. I give up when I notice the remote sitting on top of the TV on the other side of the room. Folding my arms across my chest, I glare at the screen, halfheartedly trying to turn it on with my mind.<br>I abandon that endeavor too after two minutes and twenty-four seconds of useless glaring at the inanimate object. Leaning back my head, I close my eyes and stretch out my legs on the cushions.

The numbers. And the names.  
>I see them. They hover above everybody's head, a name in whatever language they were born to, and a random set of numbers underneath.<br>Only, the numbers _aren't_ random. They show the time that person will die...I had a theory, but it was finally confirmed when my father was killed.

Before he died, I noticed that most old geezers had much smaller numbers than younger people. And, what's more, they _changed_. Every six minutes and forty seconds, the numbers ticked down one, like a clock. Once, I saw a man get shot right in front of me. He was part of an organized gang - and was struck down in a rival gang's drive-by shooting. Right before he died, the last number - a 1, of course - ticked to 0 for a moment before disappearing, along with his name. That's when I came up with my theory.  
>Several people in the past have noticed my habit of glancing up above their heads when I first meet them, citing some sort of social anxiety disorder, assuming that I am avoiding eye contact.<br>Truthfully, I am always trying to understand it. I look at their numbers and estimate how much time they have left.  
>I'm rather good at quick mental math.<p>

I have never told anyone of this...this _ability_. Not only would they assume that I'm crazy, but they'd probably try to probe my mind for some sort of disorder where there is _none_.

Lia River cries out in pain, and I open my eyes. I hear my mother trying to comfort her, and the sound of liquid spattering onto a linoleum floor.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Review, please. I'd really like to be a better writer. If something about the narrative voice irritates you, tell me. Same goes for word choice, flow, and all the shit that's in there.**

**Oh, and expect short chapters. I run out of steam after 1000 words or so, 'cause I have no patience.**


	2. Birthday

What?

I swung my legs off the couch and walked into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway as I see Ms. River on her hands and knees, breathing hard, and my mother kneeling beside her.

Ms. River cries out again.

On the floor between her knees is a puddle of pinkish liquid. Shit.

Well, not shit. Amniotic fluid.

The baby is going to be born very soon, and three months prematurely.

I've read many medical books, but none about pregnancy and childbirth. I was more interested in how the body works, what would the body do if such-and-such happened, and the like. I don't care about _babies_.

However, I do know that premature births tend to be very abrupt and unsuccessful if not having taken place at a legitimate medical institution.

Ms. River cries out again, louder. My mother finally notices me standing there, speechless, in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Beyond!" She snaps. "Start up the car, we have to get her to the hospital!"

A stupid command, to be sure. I have never driven a car in my life, nor have I ever paid attention while riding as a passenger. Furthermore, I have no idea where the keys are, as my mother dislikes carrying purses and she has no pockets in the skirt she is wearing.

By this time I have regained a measure of composure and leaned against the doorway, folding my arms across my chest. I studiously turn my nose away from Ms. River on the floor, to avoid looking at her in her pain. "I don't know how to drive," I say, feigning boredom.

She is about to shout a scathing comeback when Ms. River cries out again.

No help for it, then. That baby is coming now.

I swivel, intending to head back into the living room. Waiting it out seems like the best option. However, my mother's claw-like hand lands on my shoulder, gripping it like a vice.

"Help me with her," She growls menacingly. "Now."

I turn my head just enough to give her the most scorching look I can muster out of the corner of my eye. When that doesn't faze her, I sigh, turning back around and following her to Ms. River's side, massaging my shoulder as I go. Standing over her now, Ms. River looks terribly small and vulnerable. She is breathing in little gasps, trembling and sweating. I feel...bad. Guilty, I suppose, for intending her to leave her to give birth with only the aid and minimal comfort my mother can give. This surprises me, of course, having only just met her. And, not to mention, my lack of caring for people I have known for years.

I kneel beside her, a good two feet between us. Raising my eyes to my mother, I silently asked her what my job in this situation would be. She nods and begins to direct me through the steps.

At the back of my mind, I wonder how she knows how to birth a child. I seem to recall that she works as a nurse in a sanitarium a bit outside of Wakefield.

Quite honestly, I can't remember the procedure of the birth, nor my role in it. This gives me some cause for concern, as my memory has always been impeccably clear and photographic. However, I do remember one thirty-five second segment of the birth. I have no idea why, but I was required to catch the baby as it came out.

Now, I do not mean to lighten the seriousness of the situation, but quite frankly it was like catching a slippery lump as it came out a bloody waterslide. If I may be frank again, it was also the most disgusting thing I have ever seen.

I situated myself between Ms. River's knees, trying not to look and feeling a bit uncomfortable when I did. Everything happened in slow motion, frame by frame. I put my hands out, palms up, and turned my head away. I squeezed my eyes shut and chanted, "Ew, ew, ew, ew," over and over again.

When I turned to look I could see the muscles below the skin of Ms. River's stomach convulsing, rippling, looking disturbingly as if it would burst.

_Ew_

Ms. River's vaginal opening swelled and shrank as if it were breathing, in time with her contractions.

_Ew_

The top of the baby's head pushed out through the birth canal, bloody and purplish and not the least bit humanoid.

_Ew_

The baby faced downwards, to the floor, and after the head the rest came out in a rush; accompanied by amniotic fluid. I braced my elbows against my stomach and caught the slimy thing - it was going at a surprisingly high speed.I turned it over instinctively, staring down.

_No face oh my god it's got no face, no face -_

I hastily shoved the infant at my mother, almost dropping the slippery thing, turned, and ran to the bathroom.

Once there I collapsed on the floor, breathing hard, head spinning. That thing had no _face_. It was a monster.

More so than I, I mean.

I laid on the floor and pressed my forehead to the cold tiles. My breathing slowed and became deeper as I tried not to think about the traumatizing event I had just taken part in. Abruptly, my stomach clenched and I had barely sat up and thrown myself at the toilet when I vomited violently.

I think I passed out after vomiting. I don't remember what happened after that, in any case. The next thing I remember is waking up on the floor, my body chilled by the tiles. My mouth felt dirty and my throat burned when I swallowed. I slowly pushed myself upright with one hand, grimacing at the disorientation.

This must be what it's like to have a hangover, I thought dryly.

I stood up and hobbled to the door. My knees were weak and my whole body was fatigued. The uneven motion swirled my vision - I could feel a headache making its way into the center of my forehead.

With my hand on the doorknob, I stopped and listened. I didn't hear the sounds of a joyous mother cooing at her baby, or the grating sound of a baby's wail. I didn't hear my mother trying to be gentle, or dishes clinking, or...anything. It was completely silent. I left the bathroom and made my way down the hall, walking quietly and listening. Once I was absolutely sure no one was home, I made my way to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water from the tap. I repeatedly swished the water around my mouth and spat it into the sink until the water was gone. Leaving the glass on the counter, I slumped into a chair at the table and dully scanned the empty kitchen.

I spotted the puddle of amniotic fluid on the floor, glad I had not stepped in it on my way in. My mind and body were just _tired_, unbelievably so. I leaned on my arms on the table, scanned the room once more, and lay my head down.

I was so_ tired_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Just so you know, this isn't a priority. As a student, I'm fairly busy, and will only write when I have time/inspiration. So I'm leaving the On-Hold piece in the description, but will try to write whenever I can. Thanks for reading!**

**Also, for people who have alerted this story, please don't thrill yourselves. I'm just fixing some of the story because apparently fanfiction cannot copy/paste properly. Thanks again!**


	3. Peace

I woke up to the sounds of my mother bustling in through the door, bringing with her a wave of humid August heat. She was chattering to Ms. River behind her, almost like a normal woman. I opened my eyes but kept my head on the table, staring at the plastic patterned tablecloth.  
>My mother sounded...happy. It was odd, on her. She was probably trying to lighten to mood after Ms. River delivered a malformed baby, I supposed. My mother either ignored me or didn't notice me for another forty-eight seconds, after which she reached down and rubbed my shoulder with surprising gentleness.<p>

"Beyond...?"

I slowly raised my head and looked at her, suspicious. Why was she being so...nice?

When I didn't respond, she went on. "Beyond, could you get a blanket for Lia? She needs to rest."

I turned my head to look at Ms. River. She smiled cheerily at me before making her way to the couch. Why was she so happy? Did she not see that thing she gave birth to? And I would have expected her to remain in the hospital for another day or two, at least. I was fairly sure women should not move themselves too much so soon after birth. Also, premature babies were supposed to be kept in an incubator until fully grown. All of this seemed highly suspect to me, or as much as it could in my sluggish state.

"Beyond," my mother prompted me. I silently rose from the table, and, careful of the puddle on the floor, made my way to the portion of the house I had not yet explored.

Ms. River's bedroom was comfortingly plain. A full-size bed stood in the corner by the window, only the closer side slept in. I stood there a moment, tiredly taking in the rest of the room. The cheap wooden bedside table. The white dresser that didn't match the other furniture. The various lamps, stains, and dust particles.

I think I must have zoned out, because I came to with that jolt one gets when daydreaming without realizing it. The room still looked the same, no significant change in lighting. I assumed I could not have been out of it for more than a few minutes.

As I pulled the worn quilt off the bed I wondered if my mother would be impatient with me. If her uncharacteristic gentleness would extend this long.

I was so confused, which didn't happen to me often. I was too tired to think. I would just do whatever my mother asked until I could regain my senses. That was an appropriate course of action, wasn't it? Dissociate and coast on autopilot until ready to face whatever challenge there was? I hadn't read many fiction books, but the annoying weaklings who couldn't deal with their lives seemed to do that a lot. I made my way back to the living room, the blanket dragging on the floor behind me.

* * *

><p>My mother and Ms. River were chatting quietly on the couch. The bundle in Ms. River's arms was silent and small, so much smaller than the bloody lump I remembered. Ms. River looked down at the bundle every so often, with that indescribable joy new mothers always seem to have (for the first few hours, at least).<p>

I silently handed the blanket to my mother, who spread it on Ms. River's lap.

Ms. River smiled up at me, for the third time today. I stared dully back.

"Beyond, would you like to see him? I couldn't have done it without you, I admit." She chuckled. "The birthing part, I mean, not the making part."

I didn't answer her. Slowly reaching down, I gently pulled back the baby's wrappings.

It's - _his_ - face was white, with a pinkish tinge. A few wispy, colorless strands of hair curled out of the opening I made. The purplish smooth faceless monster I remembered was certainly not this baby.

He didn't make any sound, either. I was led to believe that most babies never stopped screaming. But this one...his eyes were open, big black irises intelligent somehow, and he just stared right back at me.

We must have stared at each other for at least fifty-two seconds straight. He was a truly amazing child...

I registered dimly that Ms. River was speaking to me. "He was born with a caul. You know, like a membrane covering his face. It's supposed to be extraordinarily lucky. He's special, isn't he?" I realized that at some point between first seeing the baby and the present I had kneeled on the floor in front of Ms. River. Looking up at her beaming face, I nodded for her to continue.

"He's albino, too. I think my great grandfather was also albino, but it's so rare. What are the chances?" She stroked his face with a finger.

I stopped listening as she chattered on. But she was right, on one point. This baby was special.

* * *

><p>"Natty, what're you doing?" I called out to the two year old on the carpet from behind the telly. I grunted as I tried to plug a cord into an outlet that was too far away. "Natty?"<p>

I straightened up and exhaled, puffing out my cheeks and rubbing my hands free of dust. Well, Lia's new telly was up and working properly now, at least. I walked over to Nate, still staring at the corner, and scooped him up. "Oh, hey there," I grinned at him, balancing his tiny body on my hip.

I have to admit, his slow growth worried me slightly. His mother _was_ a bit short, but Nate just seemed so _small_. But, I knew for a fact that he was fed well and his mother adored him, so I never raised the topic to her.

"Hello B," Nate gripped my shirt and smiled up at me before returning his considerable concentration to the corner.

I bent my head to his small ear and whispered, "What're you looking at?" I nuzzled him, he smelled so clean. He did seem to have an unhealthy obsession with that corner, though. He was an exceptionally brilliant child, maybe more so than I was at his age. Although, to be fair, I did not have a nurturing figure of like intelligence as he did. And he spent hours staring at that particular corner, as if trying to communicate with something there.

He sighed, and leaned his head on my shoulder. "Nothing," he answered, closing his eyes. I knew that little bugger was lying, but I decided to let it go this time. I had interrogated him before, about what he was staring at, to no avail. He knew I couldn't see whatever he did, so I assumed that's why he wouldn't tell me about it.

"Well...let's get something to eat, okay?"I didn't wait for his reply. Walking to the kitchen, I set him on the counter and poured a glass of water for him. The only thing that had changed in the kitchen in the past two years was the plastic tablecloth - it was a different pattern now. Nate had never needed sippy cups or a highchair of any sort. What a guy.

I got out applesauce and some green beans. Nate didn't like meat, for some reason. That was probably adding to his retarded growth, but I didn't bother him about it. I spooned strawberry jam for myself straight out of the jar as I watched him eat. This brand was a little too sweet, but I decided against telling Lia as she was kind enough to not comment about my strange habit as well as continue to keep a stock of strawberry jam for me in her fridge.

"I heard mother talking to your mother last night on the phone," Nate said suddenly.

"Oh yeah?" I frowned, raising my spoon high into the hair and watching the jam drip back into the jar.

He nodded. "They were talking about your school performance. My mother said you were just different, and that people don't know what to say to you."

"Did your mum mention anything...specific?" I put down the jar and leaned on my elbows, staring at a small stain on the counter.

"She said that all teens like to try things, and it's not really an indication of what your life will turn out like," I waited for him to continue. "She said that you shouldn't be punished for smoking or fighting at school or anything like that. She said it's best for you to be left to figure things out on your own."

"Ah..." I screwed the lid back onto the jam jar and returned it to the fridge, the spoon hanging out of my mouth. "Done eating?" I asked, spinning the spoon and reaching for the bowl of half-eaten beans. I put the leftovers in the fridge and rinsed the bowl. Behind me, Nate stared at the remaining applesauce cup pensively.

"B...are you doing well in school?" I turned to see him avoiding my look, rolling the applesauce cup in his small hands.

"Of course I am," I tried to sound smug. "Freaking genius, remember? How could I not be doing well in school?"

Nate ignored my question and mumbled 'alright,' quietly.

I sighed. "Hey..." I pulled him to me, cradling him in one arm and spinning the spoon upright on the counter with the other. "Why are you worried about me, huh? Come on, it doesn't work like that. I'm fine, you're fine, we're all fine, and I can deal with school. Alright? No big deal. Don't worry about it."

Nate finally smiled a little, and reached for the spoon. "Alright," he said, handing me the applesauce to open for him.

I pulled off the foil cover and smiled back. "Alright."

* * *

><p>At first, I could not believe the level of demotion I had received. Johnson's Secondary Education Academy for Troubled Youth? When I was eleven, just a week after Nate had been born, when I was first enrolled in this UK equivalent of American middle school juvie, I was furious. I was a goddamn-fucking-genius. I should be in a top university, studying whatever the hell I wanted. And I was, by no means, a <em>troubled youth<em>. And yet, by the all-knowing power of my mother, I was dropped with halfwit crazed preteens for eight hours a day, five days a week.

That was two and a half years ago. Now, I am fourteen, in the second semester of my third year at Johnson's School for the Potentially Psycho. Now, I appreciated the freedom it gave me. Well, if not freedom, the interest. Of course, I had already learned everything on the curriculum, and much more complicated things to boot. So I had other ways to entertain myself in class. And while they had security guards posted in the hallways at all times, it was almost boringly easy to do illegal trades. Or, in my case, have a little fun.

It was true, however, that I had gotten into a bit of _trouble_ recently. I was caught smoking on campus during lunch last Wednesday, February 2nd. And I gave an acquaintance the rest of the pack of cigarettes for a flask of clear vodka, which unfortunately I drank the following Friday, February 4th. I got into a drunken brawl I can't remember with another drunk student, and was given detention.

I was just having a little fun, though. It was so hard to come by in this shit town.

So, the following Monday, February 7th, 1994, I swiped a water bottle from a student I had first and fifth hour with. As I suspected, it was filled with some kind of alcoholic vile-smelling cocktail that looked no different from water through the dark colored plastic. Between first and second hour, in the bathroom, I emptied the bottle down the toilet and stashed it in my backpack. Third hour I had chemistry class, in which we were working with weak acids and bases for our unit. I managed to pour sixty-five milliliters of hydrofluoric acid into the water bottle without anybody noticing.

This would be so _fun_.

During lunch I managed to 'accidentally' bump him as I made my way through the close set tables. It was a good thing he usually kept his bottle in a netted pocket on the outside of his backpack, or sneaking back the bottle would have been much harder with so many people around. Unfortunately, fourth hour was immediately after lunch, and so I could not immediately see the fruits of my labor.

Fifth hour finally came, and I tried to contain my excitement. I sat diagonally behind the student whose water bottle I had stolen, and could not wait for the fun that would come. I almost laughed as he took a swig from the bottle, not being able to tell the difference in smell and sting from alcohol. I knew hydrofluoric acid could dissolve many things, especially metals, and contact with skin caused fatal systemic toxicity. So what happens when one _drinks_ it?

"Beyond. They want to see you in the office." My maths teacher called me from behind her desk, apparently checking an email the school had sent her regarding me. Well, they certainly had the best technology in this school. Each teacher had their own computer and the school had an email system too.

"I...what? Why?" Usually I was much more eloquent, but I had just been deprived the chance of watching my work in action. To say in the least, I was irritated.

The class tittered, those ignorant twats. Most of them had never heard me speak before, and the first time they did I sounded just as idiotic as they. Also, they considered my name to be strange.

"I don't know," My teacher sighed. "Just go."

I stood up and collected my things, grinding my teeth. The class watched silently, their eyes following me in unison, as I walked out the door.

Arriving at the office, I was directed to a seat by the fat secretary with badly dyed red hair. Her high pitched voice irritated me, but luckily she only had a year and a half left to live. I wondered idly how she'd die as I waited. I grew tired of that topic quickly, as she was no one of consequence and my thoughts traveled at high speeds. I found my thoughts returning to the student who drank my acid. I didn't get to see his face, but I doubted he had much longer to live.

Oftentimes now I don't know how long people have to live. I trained myself, after repeated scoldings by my mother that included much violence, to not look above peoples heads when I meet them. Also, most of the people I come in contact with are so worthless and inconsequential that I don't feel bothered to calculate their lifespan anyway.

I sighed, leaning my elbows on my knees and propping my face in my hands. I didn't even know what I was here for, but it probably had to do with my '_bad behaviour_' last week.

I waited all through fifth hour, and sixth hour too, right up until the end of school. The bell rang, and the halls thundered with a herd of delinquents out to continue their illicit activities. Finally, finally, I was called.

"Beyond, come in here please," The female principal was tall, thin, brownhaired, and strict. I took in her gray hairs, how her tweed pantsuit was too large, her thin, breakable glasses, and stored it automatically in my memory. She had about twenty three years left to live.

"Why am I here?" I still had my American accent, although I had picked up a few British slang terms over the years.

She noticed I neglected the courtesy of saying her name, automatically filing me under the category of 'Another Insolent One'. She certainly dealt with plenty of those in her position, I was sure.

"I'll make this brief and to the point, then. Mr. Birthday, you are no longer welcome at this school. Not only due to the events of this past week, but also because you have been noted to be contemptuous and occasionally violent towards the other students here. Your mother's description of you has also given us some cause for concern, and she has already approved this school's action. I'm sorry, Mr. Birthday, but you may no longer attend this school."

I sat there, stunned for a moment, before painting a bored expression on my face.

She continued. "We have sent the necessary papers to your address, as well as several pamphlets for schools better equipped for a student like you. I wish you the best of luck in your future, Mr. Birthday."

* * *

><p>I went to Nate's house, as usual, after school. I was a bit disoriented. Though I disliked the school, I hadn't hated it, and I certainly hadn't expected to be expelled.<p>

"Hey there, B," Lia greeted me as I walked in, jacket on and car keys already in hand. "I already fed Nate, and there's more jam in the fridge. I'll be back around 8, okay?" She waved as she stepped out the door, on her way to her part time job. I nodded too slow; she was already gone.

I dropped my backpack on the floor. The homework was ridiculously easy, and there was no point in doing it anymore. I leaned against the wall, wondering what I'd do from now on. Maybe I could spend all day with Nate, so Lia could get a full time job and earn more money. I had already had an education more in depth and varied than most college graduates anyway, why would I need to be enrolled in another school?

Or maybe my mother would insist on me getting a job. It would be no problem for me to work to the top of, say, a high end technology firm, but I'd rather spend my days with Nate.

"Natty?" I called, walking into the living room.

He was sitting on the floor, playing with matches. Not lighting them, stacking them. He always was playing with little things, building towers and such.

"Hey," I scooped him up, causing his tower to collapse. I buried my face in his white curls, breathing in his clean scent. I turned and fell onto the couch, still holding him.

He lay on my chest quietly for a few minutes, pinching my plain black shirt in between his tiny fingers. "B seems slightly upset," he observed.

"Do I?" I asked lightly, rubbing his back. I do admit I have large hands, but my palm spanned his entire back.

He turned his face to me, big black eyes serious. "Yes, but just a bit." he answered.

"Hmm..." I rolled onto my side, carefully arranging him next to me. I wrapped my arm around him and snuggled him. I have become such a softie for him, almost immediately after he came from the hospital. It is certainly a level of care far above anyone else has ever elicited from me.

"Well, I did get expelled from school today..." I murmured into his hair.

He turned to face me and buried his face into my shirt. "Why so?"

"I'm not entirely sure. I don't really care though, it's alright. Maybe now I can spend all day with you," I smiled down at him, but he didn't see it.

He lay thinking for another twelve seconds. "Hm," he finally answered. "That'd be alright then."

We were silent after that, for a long time. Lia doesn't make a lot of money, so even though it was February the heat was hardly on. I pulled a ratty throw blanket on top of us, and curled myself around Nate. He was already asleep, so I took the opportunity to kiss his forehead without him giving me the I'm-too-old-for-that look.

I don't know when I fell asleep, but when I woke Lia was in the kitchen cooking something that smelled like pasta. I felt...content. Nate was still asleep beside me, and Lia had thrown another blanket over us. I was extremely comfortable.

Lia walked into the living room, presumably to check on us. Seeing me awake, she smiled warmly. "Hey, B. You looked so comfortable there, I called your mother and she said it was alright for you to spend the night. Hungry?" When I shook my head, she continued. "Alright, well, you know where it is if you do get hungry. I'm going to turn in early, I had such a busy day today..."

I nodded and yawned. I was so tired, for some reason...or maybe it was just that I was so comfortable, I subconsciously decided to be tired. Either way, I didn't really care.

I awoke again in the middle of the night. The glow-in-the-dark clock on top of the telly said it was 2:37 in the morning. Nate, who had apparently woken me to get my attention, poked me again.

"B, I have to use the bathroom," he whispered.

I roused myself more and mumbled agreement, before standing up and carrying him to the bathroom. On the way back, he very deliberately turned his face to my shoulder as we entered the living room. "Hm? You okay?" I asked as I pulled the blankets over us.

He nodded, face still in my shoulder. After a moment, he shook his head, pushing his head into my chest. "What's wrong...?" I asked, pulling him closer.

He took a deep breath and said, voice muffled, "There's a man in the corner."

"A man...?"

"Yes. He doesn't have any eyes though. It looks like his eyes were gouged out. He just stands there, all the time. Sometimes he leaves, but he's usually there. Mother doesn't see him," he sounded close to tears.

"I don't see him either," I said slowly. "Does he scare you?"

Nate nodded, pressing his face into my chest again. "He never says anything. He turns his face to follow me though, even though he can't see me. No one knows he's there."

I wrapped my arms around him tightly. I knew he wouldn't make this up, but all the same it made no sense. I didn't believe in the paranormal. "Is he there right now?"

"I don't want to look," Nate sounded as if he were about to cry. He was usually such a calm and rational child...this was very strange.

I looked into the corner Nate always stared at.

Nothing.

"Do you want to sleep in your room instead?" I asked. His room really wasn't much of a room, it was small enough to be a sort of walk-in closet. A twin bed was shoved in there, for me when I stayed over, and it barely fit. Nate usually slept in a soft, fleecy dog bed on the floor when I wasn't around.

Lia was low on money, but Nate never seemed to notice.

"No, this is fine," Nate insisted. "Let's just go back to sleep, okay?"

"Okay..." I pulled the blankets over our heads and curled around him. Knowing Nate was convinced that there was a man in the corner of the room we were in lent a creepy atmosphere that was hard to fall asleep in. I sighed and kissed Nate on the cheek. For once, he didn't protest.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This chapter ends rather abruptly, sorry, but I couldn't think of a good place to end it. Ah well. Till next time, then.**


	4. Stirring

_July 11, 1994_

_11:36 am_

_Wakefield Public Library_

_ Number: 38559601734338_

_ Pin: 5882_

_You have rented this computer for fifty five (55) minutes._

I had chosen a computer with the screen facing a corner, so no one could come up behind me. They already have restrictions on what kind of sites you visit, and are sure to track every page viewed. Not that what I was doing was illegal or of an unusual matter, but I'd rather not have someone breathing down my neck anyway.

I'm not paranoid.

_72 Hiltshire Lane, Wakefield, WF2, United Kingdom_

_Results:_

_1. Wakefield, England Official Site - Explore Wakefield!_

_2. Wakefield, UK - Wikipedia_

_3. Real - Wakefield UK_

_4. 1991 Hiltshire Lane Murder - .uk_

_5. Local Murder Still A Mystery - .uk_

The fourth result seemed the most promising.

_An unidentified man was found in a Hiltshire Lane, Wakefield home last Wednesday night. His body contained evidence of either foul play or violence, as did the windows and doors to the home. The house he was found in was legally unowned, but there are signs that he had been living there for some time. Autopsy results pending, but the police do expect drugs were involved in the man's death._

Hm. How about that.

_1991 wakefield murder_

_Results:_

_1. 1991 Hiltshire Lane Murder - .uk_

_2. Body Found in Unowned Wakefield Home - .uk_

_3. Local Murder Still A Mystery - .uk_

_4. 1884 Murder in Wakefield Tavern - .uk_

_5. Murdered Wakefield Man Identified - .uk_

Finally getting somewhere.

_The man found dead in a Wakefield home last May was identified today as Guy Du Ponte. Du Ponte had been missing since March, as reported by his brother Jean Du Ponte. During the last phone call Jean Du Ponte shared with his brother, Guy Du Ponte had reportedly been 'agitated,' and asked his brother if he could visit him in his Paris home._

_Jean Du Ponte had waited for his brother at the local airport a week later, but Guy Du Ponte never showed up. After failing to contact his brother, Jean Du Ponte reported him missing the following day._

_Guy Du Ponte's body had traces of cocaine and arsenic in his system. It is estimated that he was dead for two days before his body was found._

That's it? There wasn't even a conclusion. They must not be paying their journalists very well.

But there was a link at the bottom of the page...

_Murder House Sold in Wakefield_

I would hardly classify the house as a murder house, considering only one body was ever found in it. Honestly, these people will do anything to mislead you.

_The house in which a body was found in May was sold three days ago. The house price had been greatly reduced, and the new owner knew what had happened in the house only two months earlier._

Those two sentences could hardly be classified as an article. But no matter, even though they never published the address it was all too likely that it was the River's house. I knew that Lia had purchased the house shortly before Nate was born, so all that was left to do was to get a picture of the dead man.

A picture of when he was alive, I mean.

_Guy Du Ponte_

_Image Results:_

Most of the pictures were of movie stars with either the first name Guy or the last name Du Ponte. And, inexplicably, a picture of an old watch.

I scrolled through the pictures, scanning the descriptions, until the words "found dead" caught my eye. The man, Guy Du Ponte, had a high nose bridge, deep set eyes, and high cheek bones. He was also rather tanned and had dark brown curly hair, and was sitting on the bow of a boat. The description was from another news article about the murder, and was credited as a family photo taken by his brother, Jean.

Except for the coloring, he looked a lot like Nate.

Holy shit.

* * *

><p>Luckily, mum didn't make me get a job or go to another school after being expelled from Johnson's. Not going to school may or may not have been illegal, but whatever. I spent my days playing with Nate and doing whatever the hell I wanted.<p>

And today, I had spent twenty-three minutes looking up information on the ghost in the living room. To tell or not to tell? Nate was a tough little bugger, and I knew he never really cared about his mysterious father, but this might be a little too traumatizing for a two-year-old.

If he asks, I suppose I'd tell.

Glad that's taken care of.

* * *

><p>I returned to Lia's house at 12:13 and made my way to the living room, looking for Nate. He lay on the rug, playing with the block set Lia had bought him recently. The cityscape he was building, however, was far too ambitious for the amount of blocks in the set. I kneeled down on the other side of the 'city' and watched him build until he ran out of blocks. He looked down at the thin carpet where his pile of blocks had been sadly.<p>

Looking at the half finished towers and streets, I asked, "Why don't you build something simpler? Like just one or two buildings?"

I could tell he didn't like that idea, but he only nodded. "Okay..."

I helped him build a tower for twelve minutes, until it was done. We sat companionably and chatted for another seven minutes until Lia came home, with her boyfriend in tow.

"Hi, you two," she called. "Eliot's here. Oh, and Beyond, your mother will be joining us for dinner before she leaves for her trip."

Oh, right. My mum was supposed to leave for a business trip tonight to London for a few days. I'd be staying at Lia's until she got back. "Alright," I called back. My mother left quite often, and I was fairly sure not all of them were business trips, but I never cared enough to investigate further. To be honest, I could probably check her phone or hack into her email accounts, or even check her credit statements, but what was the point in that? My mother was not an interesting woman, similar though we were. Let her have her secrets.

I suppose some would say I have a talent for deduction, a hobby I have never pursued. I'm smart, of course, and observant too. I can easily put together a scenario given just a few key facts and some information; but, somehow, knowing how long every person on the street has left to live has left rather few mysteries worth pursuing for me. I never much cared for armchair sleuthing.

Lia giggled in the kitchen and said something most likely sexual to her boyfriend in a low voice. I hoped that that didn't usually take place within Nate's earshot, as it was rather disturbing to overhear one's own mother with sex on the brain.

"Natty, I got you a book at the library today," I said, suddenly remembering. I had forgotten that I checked out a book on the Roman Empire earlier, how unlike me. I pulled it out of my backpack and set it in front of him. The damn thing weighed about as much as he did, a bit less than a stone and a half. However, for a two year old, Nate was tiny. He didn't look like a crawling baby, he really did look like a young child. Just absolutely tiny. I watched him as he delicately pulled aside the heavy cover and scanned the title page. His tiny fingers swept across the page to the corner, and he bent his head towards the book to see better. Nate had terrible vision, a side effect of his albinism. I had considered purchasing a pair of reading glasses for him, but his head was far too small for all the frames, and none of the lenses were strong enough anyway. Oh well, his small frame put his head close enough to the book to read regardless.

* * *

><p>Dinner was an uneventful affair. My mother chatted with Lia and Eliot, who held hands underneath the table like hormone-crazed teens throughout the meal. Nate sat on my lap, eating vegetables off my fork and pouting when I tried to feed him small bits of meat. I observed Lia and Eliot with as much subtlety as I could muster (which may or may not be a considerable amount). They seemed pretty serious...almost always in each other's company, excessive canoodling, suggestive glances.<p>

I can't say it was pleasant to look at.

After dinner Lia made a big show of bringing out a small store-bought chocolate cake, announcing that she and Eliot were engaged and expecting. My mother bounced up from her chair excitedly and hugged her, truly happy for one of the few people she genuinely liked.

Social custom dictates that all must be joyous when hearing news of an impending birth, whether it be a teen mother or a rape victim or any sort of pregnant woman in between. However, given my prior experience with childbirth, I wasn't exactly overjoyed.

I absolutely adore Nate, of course, and greatly enjoyed being with him every day of his life, but Nate was - is - a special child. I knew before that I didn't find children to be a joy, but Nate was never any normal child. Normal children weren't like him and I; we were our own special category. I shared my good characteristics with him, more like a son than a baby brother, and the less pleasant ones with my mother. I knew an averagel child just wouldn't fit in.

As such, I stared blankly at Lia as she beamed with happiness. I vaguely recalled that, social custom notwithstanding, I should congratulate Lia at least on the basis of her being so pleased. However, I just stared at the kitchen light over her shoulder and pulled Nate closer to my chest, wrapping both arms around his little body.

Luckily, Lia didn't seem to notice, and chattered on with my mother as she leaned into Eliot's side. He was nodding, smiling as happily as Lia as he called to Nate, "You're going to be a big brother, Nate! Aren't you happy for mummy and daddy?" I was too far gone in my muddled feelings to hear Nate's reply.

By the time both Lia and Eliot left with my mother to drive her to the train station, I was still frozen in my chair. I hadn't moved a muscle for the past eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

"B...?" Nate squirmed in my grip, trying to attract my attention. "B, let's watch the television."

"Uh..." I mumbled back, still staring wide-eyed without seeing anything specific. I stood up creakily, as if my joints were seventy years old, still holding Nate. I didn't question his unusual request to watch the telly, I just shuffled to the living room.

Collapsing on the couch with Nate in my arms, I realized the remote control was on top of the television console itself. What a terrible place to put a remote control, the whole point of the device is to control the T.V. without having to be relatively near it. Why put it on the television? I supposed it made sense on an organizational level, but in real life organization has limited practicality. Not many things do have much practicality, though, but that still doesn't stop people from making strange products advertised at three in the morning on shopping networks.

A tangent, how strange. My thoughts rarely wander off, without my deliberate sending them into vague meanderings. I'm not much of a daydreamer.

"B," Nate had evidently been requesting my attention for some time now. "B, Eliot's not...he isn't..."

It was very unlike him to not have every word at his immediate grasp. He was much the 'thinking before speaking' type. He rarely mentioned Eliot, though; I had a feeling that Nate did not particularly care one way or another for the man. The man had said something earlier though, while I wasn't entirely lucid. What had it been?

Nate interrupted my thoughts once again, seeming slightly frustrated. "He was wrong...You're my real dad, B."

I chuckled at hearing such an informal word as 'dad' coming from Nate's mouth. "I know," I replied, pulling him closer to my chest. Then, just to bother him, I puckered my lips and placed exaggerated kisses along his cheek. I laughed as he turned his head, using both tiny hands to push my face away.

I finally relaxed, cuddling Nate and basking in our companionable silence.

* * *

><p>Not my best work, I know, but I felt like it had been too long and I should put something out. The first half has been sitting untouched in my computer since whenever I uploaded the last chapter, a real long time ago. Anyway, I need an opinion. Am I making this too fluffy? I feel like I'm going into fangirl mode where everyone loves each other and wants to cuddle.<p>

Further bulletins as events warrant :P


End file.
